


Save Me

by FlyAway_33



Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [5]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Drinking, Gen, Guilt, Homophobia, Hurt Roger Taylor (Queen), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Panic Attacks, Protective Freddie Mercury, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Hatred, Sexual Harassment, Shock, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23631967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyAway_33/pseuds/FlyAway_33
Summary: Their 24-hour bender had been meant for pure fun and over-indulgence, but it didn't end the way they had planned. No, not even close.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Roger Taylor
Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691062
Comments: 13
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize this, it is because it has been posted before. I previously had it as part of a single story of unrelated chapters, and wanted to reorganize those chapters into individual stories so that I have the opportunity to continue one of the multiple story lines. Now those chapters will all be re-posted into a series! 
> 
> I'm super excited for this one. It's almost completely written and has been edited quite a bit since it was previously posted. 
> 
> TW: implied sexual assault. It's barely there, literally a sentence, but if this could trigger you please be cautious.

Freddie led Roger to the bathroom, keeping his shaking hands on the blond’s shoulders to steady him as he shuffled down the hallway. As Freddie followed him in, Roger’s big, deep blue eyes met his brown ones, searching desperately for comfort. Freddie took a shuttering breath as he observed his best friend’s eyes, bloodshot and red rimmed from the panicked tears that had been flowing just prior to arriving back home to their flat. He'd never seen them like that before and Freddie’s heart hurt looking into those soulful, sad eyes.

Their 24-hour bender had been meant for pure fun and over-indulgence, but it had ended terribly. Copious amounts of drugs and alcohol had infiltrated both their systems over the course of their escapades but they’d been doing relatively fine until almost exactly 24 hours after they’d started. It was only 10pm now, and they’d had no intention of stopping until they’d been quite literally kicked back to reality. Now Roger was hurting and Freddie was scared. At least they had each other back home in one piece, which was all Freddie cared about in that moment. 

“Go on, Rog, get yourself cleaned up and I’ll throw your clothes in the hamper and get you a towel.” Freddie’s voice shook with his hands as he began to try to help his friend with the remaining buttons on his torn and bloody shirt. “Better yet, I’ll just throw them away” he mumbled to himself as Roger shakily handed over the shirt and began to fumble clumsily with his jeans, his mind muddled with a mixture of controlled substances and shock, and his hands violently shaking. 

Fred left Rog to shower and tossed the clothes lazily into the laundry hamper in the blond’s room before booking it to the telephone on the wall in the kitchen. He had to call in reinforcement before Roger could keep him from doing so. He knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t want the others knowing what had happened that night, but Freddie couldn’t handle this alone. All he could say over the phone was that he needed them to come, and he quickly hung up and went on to fetch a towel for Rog, his mind reeling with the events of the last two hours of their 24-hour bender. 

Roger scrubbed himself head to toe, feeling horrendously unclean and his skin crawling from the come-down from whatever he’d taken last. He couldn’t even remember what it had been, and he really didn’t care. His rational mind told him he was as clean as he was going to get and he sighed in defeat as he turned off the water. After the hot shower had pretty much burned his body back into awareness and out of the haze he’d been in, he now realized just how exhausted he was. He’d never felt this physically and mentally tired before; his muscles ached, his joints groaned with each movement, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings, feeling as though he’d collapse at any moment. Roger toweled off lazily, keeping his eyes away from his bruised and battered body. He couldn't bring himself to see the damage, not yet, and he was grateful for the steamy haze on the mirror blocking his view. He was trying not to even feel it. He wrapped the towel around his hair as he’d seen his sister and previous girlfriends do, not bothering to properly towel it off or comb it: he hated it now, and didn’t care to take care of it as painstakingly as he usually did. As Roger stretched with a pained wince, he noticed neatly folded pajamas set on the lid of the toilet that Freddie must've brought in with the towel. He quickly pulled them on and relished in the comforting, almost safe feeling the flannel pajama pants gave him. Freddie had provided a long sleeve tee shirt as well, bless him, and Roger gratefully pulled on the secure-feeling clothing. Long sleeves and long pants, yet the drummer still felt exposed and vulnerable. 

Roger jumped at the sound of the front door opening. It was a small flat and one could hear anything going on in the living room from the lone hall bathroom with ease, so it was no surprise that he could hear the voices of who had entered. 

"Fred! What the hell was that call about?" That was Brian's panicked voice. Great, he'd called the band. 

"Shh shh, darling I don't want to startle him. John will be here soon as well and then I'll explain..."

Roger didn't hear anything else Freddie said after that. Bile rose in his throat as he processed the singer's words. Explain? No. No he couldn't! He musn’t! But going out to stop him from doing so would only cause a scene and realistically, Roger knew he'd be pestered into explaining anyway if Freddie didn't. There was no stopping this from getting out to their bandmates now that Freddie had alerted them. They were too close to hide something like this from each other anyway. They were close as could be. Best friends. Brothers.  
With the realization that he couldn't just bury this, Roger felt sick to his stomach, a twisting, churning, uncomfortable feeling he recognized as anxiety. He doubled over and lifted the toilet lid just in time for the bile that had been creeping up his throat to finally escape, and he kept himself as quiet as he could in attempt to deter any more attention than he surely already had on him.   
Afterward, Roger felt that he would actually die if he didn't go to bed. He could barely stand as it was, so with a quick rinse with mouthwash he slipped out into the hallway and shuffled over to his bedroom, quiet as a mouse, closing the door as softly as his tired, clumsy hands could muster. He didn't bother with the lights and simply padded across the dark room and collapsed into his bed with a huff and a grunt of pain, towel still wrapped around his hair, and he was asleep the second his head hit the pillow. 

Out in the living room Freddie collapsed into an armchair as Brian lowered himself onto the small couch. Freddie looked rough: there were dark circles under his eyes and his pupils were still dilated from whatever illicit substances he’d been indulging in. His hair was an absolute mess, seeming to have once been styled but now pointed in all directions, some parts wavy, some parts straight, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained. Brian was growing extremely concerned and impatient with Freddie’s lack of explanation. What had happened? Was he okay? Had Roger been with him? Where even was Roger? The guitarist had opened his mouth to voice his concerns right as the front door opened once more, revealing a very flustered looking John. “Bloody hell, Freddie!” He exclaimed as he rushed into the flat, “You can’t just call and leave me hanging like that!” The bassist had obviously rushed over from his own home, frightened by the urgency in Freddie’s tone over the phone. John’s eyes swept over the room, searching for signs or trouble in the small living area. He was baffled that all seemed alright other than Freddie’s exhausted expression and unkempt appearance. He knew Freddie well enough to infer the gist of what he’d been up to for the past several hours. 

“Deaky, sit down, I’ll explain to you both” Freddie began with a shaky breath. “Roger and I got into a bit of trouble tonight—“

“You went on one of your bloody benders again, didn’t you?!” Brian exclaimed. “Jesus, Fred, you’d think the two of you would have grown up by now!”

“First of all what’s important right now is not what Roger and I do in our free time.” Freddie shot the guitarist a hard glare, piercing him with his intense brown gaze. 

“You need to be a better influence for him, Fred, this is getting unhealthy— hell it’s always been unhealthy!”

“A better influence?!” The singer spat, raising from his seat, his hands balled into fists, natural for an ex-boxer. Though he did see himself as a brother to Roger, they were equals in his mind and the three years separating them by age meant nothing. 

“Okay, hold on,” Deaky leaned forward in the seat he’d taken on the couch and put his hands up between his two bandmates. “Explain now, argue later. Freddie, what happened? You’re scaring me.”

Freddie fell back into his chair in defeat, and John blinked in surprise that he’d given up that easily. 

The singer dragged a hand down his face, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily as he gathered himself. “Okay, okay… Roger was attacked.”

“What?!” Brian and John exclaimed in unison. “ what do you mean— My God, is he okay?” Brian continued, rising to his feet in panic and whirling around as though he were looking for the drummer who clearly wasn’t present. 

“Wait a second Brian.” John caught him by the wrist and pulled him back down to the couch.

Freddie nodded in affirmation at John action and leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and slumping his shoulders in pure exhaustion. “He was beat up and well, I’m concerned about him. He’s here and I believe he was able to get himself showered and in to bed so he’s okay for now, but I don’t think I can handle this alone. The— the aftermath, I mean."

“What do you mean ‘aftermath’? He’s been in fights before, he can hold his own. It doesn’t normally get to him." Brian commented, confusion in his eyes and fear in his voice as he returned to the couch. Roger was tough, never one to back down or be affected by trivial things. Though he rarely got into physical fights and never started them himself, he wasn’t one to back down and would usually come out kicking and spitting. Nothing could put out his fire when it got sparked, but the way Freddie was talking had Brian more than worried.

“Yes he’s been in plenty of fights and he can hold his own," Freddie acknowledged hesitantly. “But this was all one sided, an ambush, really. He didn’t see it coming. A pair of men jumped him from behind, scared the living shit out of him, too. They held a knife on him.” Freddie hung his head, his heart hurting as he recounted the story. 

Brian let out a breath of shock and John remained stony as he uttered one word, barely above a whisper: "Why?" 

“They’d mistaken him for a woman from behind earlier in the night and had tried to hit on him. They were angry and accusing him of being gay because of the way he looks and had assumed I was his boyfriend or something. I— I let him go off to the bathroom by himself a bit later. Back in the hallway where the bathrooms are, you know at that club around the corner from the studio, that’s where it happened. I was worried when he didn’t come back after a bit so I went to check on him to find two men being absolutely awful to him, calling him horrible, terrible things. Hurting him for no good reason. God, he didn’t deserve that—“ Freddie choked back a sob and hung his head in his hands. “They had a knife to his throat and one was just wailing on him while the other kept him still. God, the look on his face—“

Remembering his friend’s terrified expression broke the singer’s heart all over again. The image was burned into his brain. He could still see the tear tracks lining the full cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes half closed in defense until he’d seen his friend and they’d gone wider than those of an owl, bloodshot and panic-stricken.

Brian and John were both reeling at this point, disgusted and horrified by what had happened to their bandmate. Seeing Freddie so worked up over what had happened told them that it must have been truly frightening for him, and that broke their hearts. “How’d you get them away from him, Fred?” John choked out, biting his lower lip as his eyes examined Freddie for damage from afar. 

“I tore those fuckers off him and kicked their arses of course.” The singer straightened up and pulled himself together a bit. “Had them running for the hills. I think they ended up worse off than Rog, truthfully.” The whole situation had been hell, but Freddie was relieved to he behind locked doors, safe with his best friends. He’d do anything for his bandmates, especially Roger, who was his brother, his partner in crime. He’d fight those bastards a thousand times to keep his Roggie safe. 

“Is he okay?” Brian pressed. 

“No, Bri,” Fred began, his dark eyes meeting the guitarist’s. “He’s hurt, I don’t know how bad. He was very upset and kept saying he just wanted to come home, so I just brought him here. He showered off and I think he got himself to bed. I haven’t had the chance to really look him over at all. I didn’t know what to do, he was a right mess— I’ve never seen him like that. I think... I think he had a panic attack or something.” Freddie bit his lip, thinking back to the images of the drummer looking so small with tears cascading down his blotchy face as he struggled to take in even a single breath, the violent shaking that had overtaken his thin body, and the cracking of his voice as he begged for Freddie to let him go home. They were all burned into Freddie’s memory forever. 

“I feel like an attack like that would make anyone panic.” John said, bitterly. “I’m going to check on him.” The bassist leapt to his feet indignantly and started down the hallway. John knew the first thing they needed to do was to make sure he didn’t need medical attention. By the sound of it, Roger could be seriously hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John keeps an eye on Roger

John made his way down the short hallway of his bandmates’ flat, his heart pounding as he approached the closed wooden door at the end. No light shone beneath it indicating that the drummer within was either asleep or trying to sleep. At first, John reached for the doorknob, but paused as his skin made contact with the cold metal. Instead, he raised his hand up into a fist and hesitated, internally battling with himself whether he should risk waking Roger if he were sleeping or risk frightening him by barging in if he wasn’t. 

John decided the lesser risk was to wake him so he lightly rapped on the door, “Roger, it’s me,” he cooed softly, leaning his ear against the cool wood to listen for movement within the room. Nothing. He reached once more for the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open, peering into the darkness for any sign of movement. The light from the hall spilled in through the open door and lit the small room enough for John to locate his target. Roger was lying sprawled on his back atop his covers with a fluffy yellow towel piled around his head. The light illuminated the blond man’s face, revealing the damage to his normally cherubic features. 

John’s stomach flipped as he approached the bed, Roger looked rough; even in his sleep a pained expression deepened the line between his brows and set a pout on his bloodied lips. His breathing was rather disturbingly shallow and uneven and John found it concerning that he hadn’t burrowed beneath his blankets or taken care of his hair like he normally would. For a moment the bassist considered waking his bandmate so that he could have a proper look over him, but before he could move, the drummer twitched in his sleep, eliciting a small whine from his chest and causing his expression to deepen. He was in pain.

John’s heart broke at the pitiful sight before him and knelt beside the bed so that he could run a hand over the damp blond hair that poked out of the towel. “Shh, Rog. You’re alright,” he whispered in attempt to soothe his friend without waking him. He noticed a small bead of blood oozing from a deep gash above the drummer’s nearly invisible blond eyebrow, so he then slowly pulled the towel out from under Roger’s head and gently used it to dab at the cut. 

Rog let out another noise of discomfort and groaned as he unconsciously shifted his body in a vain attempt to readjust into a more comfortable position. John noticed goosebumps forming on the drummer’s full cheeks along with a slight trembling of his lips as he pulled his arms up and curled his hands under his chin, a shuddering breath escaping his lips. John realized the poor chap was cold. He had wet hair and was laying on top of all his covers after all. 

Brainstorming how to fix this problem and knowing full well Roger and Freddie didn’t have the luxury of a linen closet full of spare blankets, John got to his feet and padded across the carpeted room and hallway into Freddie’s room, ready to take full advantage of his only available solution. 

Neatly folded at the end of Freddie’s bed lay a rather ugly but luxuriously warm and comforting wool throw blanket. It was one of Fred’s favorites and he was fiercely protective over it but John knew he’d be okay with the fact that it was going to his best friend in a time of need (regardless of how often Roger himself tried to steal the thing much to Freddie’s annoyance). Satisfied with his solution, John gently shooed one of Freddie’s cats away from where it had been sleeping soundly on the blanket before gathering it into his arms. 

Back in Roger’s room, having covered him with the throw blanket and carefully tucked him in, John settled cross-legged on the floor and rested his back against the night stand. “There we are, mate. You’ll be alright.” He patted Roger’s arm as he settled down, and wasn’t sure if he’d made the right choice by not waking his injured friend to look him over properly. His mind raced with fears and anxieties but he decided he would relax until morning as long as the drummer’s breathing didn’t worsen. He could hear the conversation fading back in the living room, so with a glance to his watch decided he’d listen to Rog for another half hour before calling it a night. So John sat and he listened.

Much to Roger's surprise he had a dreamless, relatively peaceful sleep. When he woke up what must've been hours after his shower he had no recollection of even sleeping at all. No dreams, no tossing and turning, just a flat, dark, dreamless sleep. He'd needed it. Badly. But as his eyes were met with the dim yet present natural light filtering through the curtains from the dreary day outside, the memories from previous night hit him like a ton of bricks. Every detail. He cursed to himself and willed it out of his brain, focusing instead on the fact that his towel had disappeared, the one he'd left on his hair when he'd climbed into bed. In fact, he didn't remember grabbing the blanket that was now draped over him either, and he recognized it as being one of Freddie’s. His bleary eyes landed on a yellow smudge on the back of the door that must've been his towel hanging on a hook, and he noticed that the door was cracked open about six inches, light from the living room flooding in and mixing with the daylight. Someone had been in to care for him. 

Roger momentarily snuggled into the warm throw blanket that had been draped over him and he inhaled the comforting scent of his best friend that came from it. He wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to face him after last night, as he knew Freddie would want to talk about it. The singer had rescued him after all, didn’t he deserve to know the details? 

The drummer sat up slowly feeling an aching in his muscles and his head screamed at him as he shifted to get up to go to the loo. With a glance at the clock he realized it was past noon and he'd been sleeping for over twelve hours. He slowly slid out of bed, hissing as his sore feet made contact with the floor. The pressure of his weight shifting onto the soles made him wince as he hobbled toward the bathroom, his head swimming with the killer hangover he knew he deserved along with whatever possible concussion he may have gotten (he could tell he had one as his vision was slightly warped and he struggled to find proper balance as he stood at the toilet). He figured maybe some coffee might do his head some good.

After Roger brushed his teeth thoroughly and flossed (he was disgusted he hadn’t the night before, his 18 months spent in dental school be damned) he felt a tad bit better and was beginning to get his bearings. He then shuffled out to the kitchen, trying desperately to stay quiet and unnoticed. He was honestly surprised no one else was awake yet. Roger hobbled past Freddie’s open bedroom door to see John sprawled out on the singer’s bed, mouth hanging open in his deep slumber with one of the cats curled around the top of his head. That was odd, Freddie rarely gave up his bed. He found his explanation once he approached the kitchen and could see out into the living room. Freddie had somehow fallen asleep in the armchair and his head was drooping at an uncomfortable looking angle. That was gonna be sore. Brian was stretched out on the couch, his head on one armrest and his feet overflowing atop the other. Both men were snoring softly and Roger thanked his lucky stars that everyone had decided to sleep in this morning. He figured they'd both fallen asleep before John and that must've been how he ended up with the bed. 

The grumpy blond trudged over to the coffee machine and prepared it with water and a fresh filter full of coffee grinds. The clean scent sent an almost excited shiver down his spine and brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. Good. He had something to enjoy. He turned the machine on before shakily making his way to the breakfast bar to perch his sore body on one of the cheap, old barstools that lined the counter. Roger stared into space, his mind's normal racing of thoughts and ideas which usually consumed him were all gone, instead replaced by memories of the fearful events of the night before and a whirlwind of emotions to complement. He felt sick to his stomach as images crept and picked at the edges of his mind and he physically flinched, trying desperately to keep them away. It wasn’t just last night’s events that plagued his thoughts, but they had triggered a lifetime of unpleasant memories to resurface as well.

A life time of being harassed for his good albeit babyish and feminine looks, a childhood of growing up the smallest in the pack: the “titch” boy as his old bandmates back home had lovingly nicknamed him at one point, years of being an easy target for older bullies. Always the fuck-up to his parents. Always the “blond” of any group he was part of, literally and figuratively, his deep intellect disregarded for a good laugh. Roger felt completely and utterly worthless, and he just couldn’t understand why things like this happened to him. He, who cared so deeply for others was oftentimes the scapegoat, the punching bag, the one who could be used up and tossed away.

His thoughts were broken by the chugging and hissing of the coffee machine, and he mentally cursed himself for forgetting about the absolute racket it produced. Surely it would wake one or all of the boys, and Roger sighed to himself in defeat and rested his head on his folded arms on the counter. He simply wasn't ready to talk about the night before but knew he'd never get out of it. 

As expected, Freddie and Brian both stirred out in the living room, groaning and yawning as they stretched out their bodies, stiff from the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. "Roger?" Freddie cooed as a yawn escaped his mouth, masking his concerned tone. 

"In-- in here, Fred!" The drummer called, sitting up and trying and failing to not sound as shitty as he felt, his voice a mere croak. "Making some coffee. Would you like any?"

Freddie approached the kitchen and came around to stand on the other side of the breakfast bar. "Ah, yes please, dear, thank you." His eyes swept over Roger as though he were just looking for something to fuss over and he furrowed his brows, clearly unhappy with what he saw. “Looking a bit rough there, Rog.” 

“Really?” Roger responded, raising his eyebrows in attempt to feign disinterest, but quickly relaxed his face at the pinch of pain the small movement caused. “Haven’t looked in the mirror.” He wanted so desperately to act like he didn’t care. It was just another bar fight, and that was all, he didn’t want Freddie to see that he was affected by it. 

“Your face—“ but Freddie was cut off by Brian making his way into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes dramatically as he walked to the cabinet to pick out a coffee mug.

Once the machine was done the guitarist went ahead and poured three mugs and set the sugar jar on the counter for his bandmates. He seemed as though he was still half asleep, not registering the palpable tension in the air as he went about the morning motions. He almost seemed not to remember why he was in his bandmates’ flat to begin with, that was until he noticed Roger’s face. It wasn’t just the light purple shadowing that decorated the blonde’s cheekbones, the split in his bottom lip, or the gash above his eyebrow. It wasn’t even the thin, red line that decorated the drummer’s throat. It was the look in his eyes, a look Brian had only ever seen one other time way back in the early days when he’d woken the drummer from a night terror he’d been having. It was a look of upmost despair, brokenness, and turmoil. There was none of the boy’s usual fiery personality behind those sad eyes and the thought of that absolutely shattered Brian’s heart.

“Oh, Rog…” Brian breathed, his actions stilled as he gazed at his damaged friend. “What ever did they do to you?”

Roger’s steely poker face crumpled and he looked down at his lap, desperately trying to hold in the tears that were welling in his eyes. “I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it, Brimi.”

“Darling,” Freddie sighed, “we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what happened. All I saw was you pinned against a wall with a knife—“ 

“Stop it, Fred!” Roger squawked, his voice cracking in a level of distress that was rare for him. His big, blue eyes were wide as saucers as his whole body visibly tensed. 

“Rog, hey, relax.” Brian reached out over the counter and rested his hand on Roger’s shoulder, frowning as the blond flinched at his touch. “You’re okay. We need to talk about this, alright? We don’t have to now but the sooner we do the sooner we can put it behind us, yeah?” 

Roger nodded but squeezed his eyes shut. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. He took several breaths before he let his body relax and his eyes flutter back open. “Okay. Fine. We can talk. You’re gonna find out one way or other, anyway.” With his flippant, uncaring attitude returning he slid off his barstool and padded toward the living room, clutching his warm coffee mug like a lifeline. “Someone go wake John before I change my mind.”

Freddie and Brian shared a startled look before Freddie took off down the hall to do as the blond ordered and Brian poured a fourth cup of coffee, preparing it as the young bassist liked. The guitarist was the first to join Roger in the living room, returning to his couch as the blond stole Freddie’s armchair, and they waited together in tense silence as Freddie led a bleary-eyed John down the hallway. 

“Very well,” Roger began with a heavy sigh as John plopped down onto the couch beside Brian while Freddie perched on a cushion that was lying discarded by the coffee table. Three large, curious pairs of eyes were now glued on the drummer who normally soaked up attention but couldn’t stand it in this situation. All he wanted was to go back to bed. 

The boys were patient as Roger squirmed in his seat, his wide, blue eyes locked on his coffee mug instead of those of his friends as he tried desperately to gather his words. “I’ll give you the whole story I guess. Um. I’m sure Fred gave you his side and there's not too much more I guess. These couple of blokes accidentally started hitting on me at the bar, I was facing away from them so they didn’t realize— well you know when I turned around they weren’t expecting a man. They didn’t take too kindly to it and threw a few slurs, ya know. Nothing that hasn’t happened before. They were really pissed off about it but I wasn’t up for a fight and Fred and I just walked away for once. Over and done, no big deal.” he was trying so hard to be nonchalant, trying to convince even himself that it wasn't a big deal.

“But that’s not all?” Brian asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Does it look like that was all, Brian?” The blond’s voice was scathing as his eyes narrowed, and it was a biting tone Brian rarely got from the drummer unless he’d royally pissed him off. 

"Right. Sorry."

Roger leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowed at Brian in annoyance, no longer feeling quite as self conscious now that he had the opportunity to be snarky. He had decided it wouldn’t be so bad to talk about it, he just didn’t know how to put how he felt into words without scaring his friends.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger flashes back to the attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, blood, racial slur (same as the movie), homophobic slurs, and hints of sexual harassment/assault

_It had been several drinks since Roger had last relieved himself and he’d broken the proverbial seal hours ago, so with a quick tap on his best mate’s shoulder the lithe drummer took off through the thick crowd of the night club they had ended up in. He was grateful for his slight build as he navigated and weaved through the bodies, some swaying and dancing drunkenly while others just simply just stood in the way._

_He hated that the bathrooms were so far off the barroom, and for a moment his substance-muddled brain considered just pissing on the wall of the ridiculous hallway in protest. However, the decent citizen in him convinced him to trudge the extra 5 meters or so to the mens room._

_Grumbling to himself he headed straight for the urinals and started to make quick business of relieving himself. He was vaguely aware of others being present in the bathroom, one of stalls was occupied and another person was making use of a mirror that hung over the sinks._

_Nearly finished, he heard someone exit one of the stalls adjacent to him. “Oi, what do ya know, it does have a dick!” the person exclaimed theatrically, followed by the snickers of the other who’d been at the sinks. Roger sighed in annoyance, he was getting really sick of this shit._

_“Oh, fuck off.” He spat. In one swift movement he zipped his jeans and whirled around, his temper making its grand return now that he was getting fed up, but he stopped, surprised to find they were the men who had been hitting on him earlier. In this crowded club_ they _were the ones he ran into? Just his luck._

_In the brighter lighting of the bathroom Roger could actually get a look at them. The taller one was quite burly and had a dark, Beatles-like bowl cut that he certainly couldn't pull off, along with a mustache that almost looked fake. The shorter man was still about an inch taller than Roger and had a shade of fiery red hair, his lips curled into a nearly demonic smile that curved around the spatter of freckles that dusted his nose and cheeks._

_The drummer rolled his eyes, seeing even through his growing rage and discomfort that he was outsized and outnumbered, so he’d just have to let it go. He pushed past the men and through the door, but tensed when he didn't hear the door thump closed after him. Something was about to go wrong, he could feel it, and the feeling had nothing to do with the copious amounts of illicit substances coursing through his veins. He was stopped by a rough hand on his shoulder, and turned to find the men smiling down on him like the cats who got the cream._

_“What are you playing at?” Roger hissed, shooting them with a sharp glare as a shiver of fear shot down his spine. "I’m a bloke and I’m straight, I promise, I'll stay out of your way. Just let me alone, won't you?" He went to turn back toward the bar but was stopped once more when he noticed the glint of something shiny in one of their hands. Blue eyes went wider than saucers as they travelled back up to meet the attacker's dark ones and Roger felt the icy fingers of fear grab him and freeze him to the spot._

_"I think your paki boyfriend can wait, pretty boy."_

_Roger didn't have time to think before the taller man decked him in the temple and he saw stars from the blow as the shorter man kneed him in the stomach. He fell to his knees with a desperate cry, clutching his abdomen and scrambled on all fours toward the bar. Before he could go far he was caught by a foot colliding with his ribcage and felt a sickening crack, then was scooped up by his shirt collar._

_After quite a bit of a struggle he found himself in a choke hold with another sharp blow to his eye, and the blade of the pocket knife he'd seen moments ago pressed to his throat as the red-head who held him captive backed them into the brick wall at the end of the hallway. He then pushed the drummer down onto his backside and knelt behind him, keeping the knife’s position steadfast. There wasn't any light other than the random flashes streaming down several meters from the bar, and it was just the three of them, isolated from the chaotic partying going on just out of reach._

_Roger let out a small whimper and felt the blade tighten against his throat in response. “Scream and you’re dead, faggot” hissed the voice behind him in his ear as a stinging sensation developed on his skin under the blade._

_The larger man stepped toward him and through his now blotchy vision the terrified blond watched as the man knelt before them and reached out to caress his cheek, “such a shame, these looks, wasted on a disgusting little fag like you.” The hand trailed to his jaw where suddenly it grabbed him aggressively, forcibly turning Roger’s head so that he had to look into the man’s small, beady eyes._

_Roger’s heart pounded almost painfully hard as the man’s eyes raked over him, and a sickening churning began in the drummer’s stomach as his head spun. He could feel the tickle of something wet and sticky running down his cheek and subconsciously accepted it to be blood. His survival instincts went into overdrive as he fought every knee jerk reaction to struggle out of the arms of his attackers and make a break for it, because he knew one wrong move and his life could very well end right there in that corridor. One didn’t have to have Roger’s background in medicine to know that slitting one’s throat in the right place was almost certainly a death sentence. So, he forced himself to stay still though his body screamed to move._

_“Your kind is not welcome here,” the attacker spat, getting right up in Roger’s face, grip too tight on his jaw. They were almost nose to nose and he could feel the other’s hot breath on his face. “And I wanna know why you think you are.” A finger pressed harshly into the drummer’s chest, pushing him flush against the man holding him hostage and his heart dropped into his stomach as he felt the unmistakable bulge pressed into his back. He wanted to vomit. What kind of sick joke was this?_

_Roger was scared to make a sound as he blinked stupidly up at his attacker, far too aware of the sharp bite of the knife at his throat and unable to formulate a sentence through his fear-muddled mind. It was a slap across the face with a sharp “answer me!” that made him find his voice once more, his mind spiraling down into a dark place it rarely occupied, recalling when he’d been handled like this before and reminding him of how he needed to act. He had to comply to save himself. “I— I don’t know!” he cried, panicking, his flight survival response taking over judgement for him, but he immediately wanted to kick himself for answering that way. That was a weak answer, one to placate his attacker, to speed it along. It was the type of answer that was so uncharacteristic for him that he felt like it was a different person speaking through him, a person he hadn’t been in years._

_He wasn’t sure how long he’d been held back there in the dark corridor, victim of derogatory insults and the occasional hard slap to the face. They taunted him, daring him to scream or fight, to see how much they were willing to take before slitting his throat and ending it all. He was starting to feel a tickle beneath the sting of the blade and knew he was bleeding. He didn’t move a single millimeter. He didn’t speak. Any action from him could mean a slip of the knife, and that was a risk that even in his inebriated state he wasn’t going to take. Roger could hold his own, but tonight, he was helpless against the evil that literally held his life in their hands. He couldn’t escape._

_Rationally he knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it had felt like hours before Freddie showed up, concerned and in search of his friend. Any and all comprehension was gone from the drummer as the frontman pulled the attackers away, fending them off with fighting skills he’d acquired in his youth as a champion boxer. The moment the blade left his skin Roger curled into a ball in a last ditch effort to protect himself._

He honestly didn’t remember much of how Freddie had gotten him home. The last he remembered until arriving back to the flat was Freddie hurrying over to him and scooping him up to his feet. Though Freddie was reluctant to recap the trip home, he knew the drummer needed to hear it for his own sanity, to know that they’d gotten home safe with no other issues.

_White hot Adrenalin pumping through his veins, Freddie threw one last kick to the backside of one of the attackers as they scrambled away, each of them having suffered several of Freddie’s precision sucker punches and tackles. Though Freddie was just one man, the element of surprise had been on his side and, along with his sharp defensive skills, had sent the assailants running for the hills with barely any fight._

_Once he was sure they were gone he turned to the heap on the floor behind him that was his best friend. His Roger. A pitiful sight indeed, the blonde was curled in on himself, his eyes squeezed tight and his limbs pulled in protecting his neck and middle._

_Without a word Freddie reached down and pulled Roger to his feet. The blond swayed dangerously, but Freddie didn’t hesitate: they needed to get out. It was far too loud, too busy, and too dark in the bar for Freddie to properly assess the situation, so almost cruelly he forced Roger forward and out through the bar into the cool, biting air outside. He led him several meters down the sidewalk before stopping in front of a quiet, closed postal building._

_Freddie realized Roger was wheezing and that he was practically dragging the drummer along. He gently lowered Roger to the curb, his eyes scanning for damage as he placed him on the cool, damp ground. What he saw made his blood run cold._

_Roger was a mess. And the first thing Freddie registered was that there was blood, and a lot of it. The second thing he registered was that there were several sources of it, and trailing down he could name four: Eyebrow, nose, lip, neck. But he zeroed in on the line on Roger’s throat. He couldn’t tell quite how bad it was due to the blood flowing freely from the drummer’s head and nose pooling around his neck and shoulder. In desperation Freddie reached out to try to feel the throat wound, but Roger recoiled violently, letting out a strangled, breathless cry of protest._

_“Okay, okay,” Freddie cooed, backing off slightly. “Roggie I need you to open your eyes. It’s just me. Just Freddie. You’re alright.” He gently eased his hand onto Roger’s shoulder, then slowly moved it to cup the back of his neck, gently coaxing him back to reality. “Come on, dear. I need you to look at me.”_

_Shocking blown pupils each surrounded by a thin royal blue ring of an iris appeared before Freddie’s eyes but didn’t seem to be seeing him. The look they had was far away, and filled with more fear than Freddie had ever seen in a mans eyes before that moment. It shook him to his core._

_Freddie noticed the wheezing sounds worsening, and thick tears were beginning to well up in the drummer’s eyes. “Hey, hey, you’re okay.” Freddie whimpered helplessly. “Please, Rog, just breathe, I’ve got you.”_

_“I— I— Freddie, I—“ Roger stuttered painfully, gasping for air._

_“That’s it, love. I’m here. Breathe.”_

_“I wanna go home!” The drummer’s voice cracked on the last word as he crumpled into gut wrenching sobs. “Please, I wanna go home!”_

_“Darling, I think we’d better get you looked at—“_

_“NO!” The protest came out as a wild screech and Roger tried pushing the singer off of him like a tantruming two-year-old. “NO, I WANT TO GO HOME.”_

_“Roger!” Freddie firmly planted both his hands on the drummer’s shoulders, holding him in place without making him feel trapped. Freddie had never seen his best friend— heck he’d never seen anyone quite like this and it was frightening to say the least. He had no idea what to do._

_“No, Freddie, please… let me go home.” The shouts dissolved into sobs once more as weak, calloused hands gripped desperately at Freddie’s wrists. “I just want to go home. That’s all I want.” Roger fell forward, collapsing in Freddie’s arms as sobs wracked his thin body. The relief of being alive paired with the shock of mortality was crippling, he’d never needed someone so much in his life as he needed Freddie right then._

_Freddie had held Roger for several minutes until the sobs and gasps began to slow to match the deep breathing that Freddie was carefully maintaining, and the shakes of sobs were replaced by the violent trembling of shock setting in. When he was sure Roger was at least half-coherent the singer pulled him to his feet once more, snaking one arm under his shoulder blades, and using the other to anchor the drummer’s arm around his neck._

_The farther they walked the more Roger seemed to snap out of what Freddie now realized had been a panic attack. Though he wasn’t speaking he was responding to everything Freddie asked with nods and grunts, and by the time they finally made it up to their shared flat, Roger, though still shaking like a leaf, was supporting nearly all of his own weight._

“Wow.” Brian whispered once the story was finished, his eyes wide and worried.

“My God,” John breathed, looking away and biting his lip. He looked like he would be sick.

“Listen, guys,” Roger sighed, casting his eyes to the floor, his cheeks colored with embarrassment from Freddie’s half of the story. “I don’t need or want any pity, but, realistically you all needed to know.” He hesitated, cornflower blue irises rising to scan each of his bandmate’s expressions. “Freddie ought not to have to carry that experience all by himself. Fred, I’m sorry.”

“What?” The singer’s always kind eyes met the drummer’s with confusion. “Why are you apologizing to _me_?”

“I’m sorry that you had to come save me. I’m sorry that you had to deal with all that. God, I know if it were me seeing any of you like that I would be destroyed. I am so sorry, Fred.”

“Darling, you know I’d pull you out of the actual seven circles of Hell if it ever came down to it, don’t you?” Freddie leaned over and gripped the drummer’s wrist in earnest.

“Of course I know that, Fred, I don’t doubt that, and I would do the same for you in a heartbeat, my point is that I’m sorry that you _had_ to do that.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Rog.” Brian whispered, eyes trained on where Freddie’s hand wrapped around Roger’s thin wrist. John nodded in agreement and Freddie brought his best friends scarred knuckles up to his lips, touching to them a light kiss of reassurance.

_‘Was it not your fault?’_ Roger thought bitterly to himself, but did not voice his thoughts, knowing they’d cause an uproar from his friends. ‘ _If you weren’t so fucking feminine, if you would give up on bloody fashion trends and cut your damn hair, if you stopped bleaching it, if you…’_ He easily became lost in his thoughts, the sea of self loathing that rarely ever swelled up in these days of success was making its grand return, uninvited. Trauma from his past swirled up to pool in his consciousness, unavoidable, and he felt like he was drowning.

Thoughts and feelings chased each other in circles like the ebb and flow of waves: He was angry at the men who’d attacked him, but felt that it was his fault they had; he was terrified at the realization of his own mortality, yet he felt incredibly lucky, triumphant even, as they hadn’t been able to kill him; He felt loved, knowing his friend loved him enough to save him and get him home, but he also felt immensely guilty that he’d essentially put his best friend through a traumatizing situation.

Yes, he was drowning, and he didn’t know which way was up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys take care of Rog

“Rog, hey, you there?”

“Roggie?”

“Earth to Roger?”

The drummer shifted his eyes into focus, registering that his name was being called.

“You with us, mate?” Deaky. He was leaning forward, staring intently at the blond.

Roger’s brows knitted together in confusion.

“You were a bit zoned out there for a minute,” Brian filled in. “Are you alright?”

Roger blinked before taking a deep breath. “Yeah, yeah I’m alright.”

Freddie got to his feet, eyes locked on his best friend’s face. “Come on, Rog,” he sighed. “We need to get a look at you. John checked on you last night and said you were in bad shape.”

Roger’s eyes travelled to the bassist, both curiosity and understanding dawning on him. He and John were quite close, but of all the three bandmates he’d guess to check to see if he was physically okay, he wouldn’t have guessed it to be him. While the bassist was generally much more rational than the other two he was also quite shy and the least likely to break away from the group. The drummer was surprised and appreciative to realize that it had been John to tuck him in and take his towel away. After getting up with up with a stiff groan to follow Freddie, he passed John with a pat on the shoulder and a whispered “thanks, mate.”

Everyone followed Freddie to the cramped hall bathroom where the singer gestured for Rog to sit on the toilet lid and started to rummage through the vanity cabinet for first aid materials. “Bri, darling, I think I’ll have you take it from here,” Freddie sighed as he pulled out a box of bandages and antibiotic ointment and realizing he was in over his head. One look at the nasty gash on his friend’s forehead had him chickening out.

“Alright,” Brian shouldered passed John through the doorway and took the items from Freddie’s hands and set them on the edge of the sink. The guitarist then opened up the towel cabinet and found a washrag. He wet it with warm water before sitting on the side of the bathtub and gently dabbing the rag over Roger’s cut. “Probably should have gotten stitches, Rog. What the hell did they hit you with?”

“He had a ring,” Roger hissed as the rag stung his wound.

Brian finished cleaning the gash and used his finger to spread the ointment over it, saying “I know you’re not diseased, Rog, and neither am I” as Roger the ex-med school student opened his mouth to protest the bare skin contact with bodily fluid. Brian then picked out a large, square bandage to gently place over top of the neatly cleaned wound. He passed over the badly split lip, knowing there wasn’t much he could do about it, and moved on to the thin cut on the drummer’s throat, proceeding to repeat the process on that wound. 

Cleaning the head wound hadn’t bothered Roger much at all but he winced and recoiled away from his friend’s hands as Brian reached for his throat. A stressed whine escaped the younger man’s lips as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to keep himself from shoving Brian away. It wasn’t that it hurt, though it did, but having someone’s hands at his throat so soon after the prior night’s events had Roger’s nerves frayed. The other three boys winced as well, all three of their hearts shattering as they immediately understood why he acted so distressed.

After being patched up Roger looked much less frightening though his bruised cheek and split lip couldn’t be helped. It was then that Freddie stepped forward again and grasped the hem of the drummer’s shirt. 

“Arms.” The singer ordered.

“Freddie, what the—“ but Roger was forced to comply when Freddie didn’t hesitate to pull Roger’s shirt up and off against his protests and groans of soreness. 

Gasps filled the tiny bathroom as the boys saw the damage revealed beneath, and Roger looked down, surprised even himself at the dark purple, blue, and red splotches that had developed over his ribs and abdomen. Tears pricked at his eyes that had nothing to do with the pain as he laid a hand over his stomach, feeling the heat radiating from the bruising there that contrasted sharply with his pale skin. “Bloody hell” he breathed, taking in the ghastly sight of his own skin.

“They really did a number on you, Rog.” Deaky shuffled nervously in the doorway as he spoke, “I was worried about your ribs last night, your breathing wasn’t great, so I stayed up and listened to you until I could convince myself you weren’t going to die...” he trailed off with an awkward chuckle, casting his eyes to the floor in embarrassment as he grew quiet. “Seeing you like that really scared me.”

“Scared all of us, mate.” Brian acknowledged as he washed his hands clean of the ointment.

“Maybe we should take you somewhere to get your ribs looked at, love. They look awful.” Freddie made a motion as if he were going to touch Rogers side, but his outreached hand dropped back to his side. “What if they’re broken?”

“Oh they are, but there’s not much to do for broken ribs. I’m fine, Fred.” The drummer sighed, knowing his attempts at soothing the older man would be futile. “I think I would know, I mean I did spend nearly two years dissecting cadavers in med school.” His bandmates expressed groans of disgust and disturbance at this unpleasant reminder. 

Freddie shook his head, doing his best to ignore the morbid comment. “I know, love, but might I remind you you’re not a doctor and it might be best to have a professional take a look just in case.”

“Freddie, I know you’re worried and you’re trying to help but kindly, fuck off. I. Am. Fine.” the drummer spat through gritted teeth. He was getting far too frustrated with all the babying. “If it’ll make you feel better we can wrap ‘em up. Might help the soreness anyway,” he continued in resignation.

Brian began sifting through the contents of the vanity cabinet once more, this time for an elastic bandage as Freddie nodded his approval. “We’ll get you some aspirin too, doll.” the singer shuffled out of the bathroom leaving Brian to finish treating the blond and went off in search of the medicine he’d promised. 

Roger winced as he raised his arms a bit for Brian to examine his ribs. The guitarist poked at them unceremoniously, causing gasps of pain to escape the drummer’s lips, but no protest was made, as he could feel some of them moving far too much at the touch and knew he needed to let Brian look. He’d known they were broken just by the way they rattled when he breathed, but he didn’t know how many or how badly. Prior medical knowledge screamed in the back of his mind that one could puncture a lung if he wasn’t careful, but the anxiety induced from thinking of retelling his story to a stranger kept him from going to a professional. 

The stubborn drummer internally talked himself down from his anxiety to distract himself as Brian continued his reconnaissance: He rationalized to himself that if he had a punctured lung he wouldn’t be able to fill his lungs with air, which he could do albeit extremely painful. Broken ribs hurt like a bitch because they moved with each breath, but when Roger pushed past the pain he was able to breathe, and that was all that mattered in the grand scheme of things. Right?

Another thought occurred to Roger as his panic renewed. Another possible concern: what if he had internal hemorrhaging? Nah, he thought. His belly would be stiff and he’d feel much weaker from blood loss. Plus the amount of time that had passed since the attack with no noticed symptoms of a hemorrhage was promising. He figured he was pretty much in the clear for that, so he moved on to the next concern. 

One thing Roger knew for sure was that he had a concussion. He’d been hit quite hard several times and he could tell the pounding headache wasn’t just his usual hangover headache. It was far worse. 

“Deaky,” the drummer began hesitantly, trying to make his voice sound chipper as he addressed the bassist who loitered in the doorway, observing. “I need you to check me for concussion while Brian’s doing his bit.”

“Uh, I don’t know how, Rog,” Deaky pointed out in surprise. “I haven’t taken first aid like Brian.”

“It’s easy, I’ll talk you through it. You won’t be able to definitively tell or anything, I don’t think, but I just want to make sure I’m not bleeding out up there.” He tapped his head with his index finger, smirking slightly in attempt to relieve the anxious tension in the air.

John’s face paled in horror as his eyes fixed on Roger’s head as though he were trying to see through his skull into his brain. 

“Come off it, John I’m kidding!” Roger grumbled impatiently. “Never mind, you don’t have to check. I feel well enough so I’m sure it’s not so bad.” What the drummer didn’t say was that his already shoddy vision had been swimming in and out of focus since he woke up and every sound stabbed into his skull like a knife. He figured he could just blame it all on the hangover if anyone asked. His body had been through more chemical and physical abuse in the last 36 hours than most go through in a life time, so all he needed was some rest and self care and he’d be fine. 

Brian was gentle as he wrapped the elastic bandage around where he could feel his friend’s broken ribs. As Roger hissed in pain trying to hide his discomfort, Brian winced, nearly feeling it himself as his heart went out to Roger. No matter how much he disagreed with some of the blond’s choices of how he spent his free time, and thought he was constantly putting himself in danger, no one deserved to be ambushed the way Roger had been. No one went out to have a good time thinking they would be brutally attacked. Sure, Roger made some poor choices sometimes, but he certainly wasn’t dumb and none of this was his fault, which is what truly broke Brian’s heart over the situation. He simply couldn’t rationalize or make sense of why anyone would have hurt his friend for no reason. 

“Alright, Rog?” Brian asked as he secured the bandage and placed a hand on his friend’s arm, signaling that he could relax.

Roger winced as he took an experimental breath. “I guess so, yeah. Thanks, Bri.”

“Don’t mention it.” The lanky guitarist then got to his feet and offered a hand to the drummer, a gentle, sympathetic smile on his face. “What do you say we find where Fred’s at with that aspirin, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thats it! this is the first multi chapter fic I've ever been able to stick to and finish, so I'm pretty proud of it. Please let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


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